A tale of two Roys

As Roy, Sikka, Hemant, and Andy gathered at Tolly Club after a round of golf, laughter and camaraderie filled the air. They were seated at their favorite table overlooking the golf course, a picturesque view that never failed to enhance their adda sessions. Hemant poured tea for everyone, while Andy, who had recently completed an ultra-marathon and a deep-sea diving adventure, enthusiastically shared his latest escapades.

“Bond,” Roy teased with a grin, the nickname he’d coined for Andy. “After all that diving and running, who would have thought you’d have the energy for golf?”

“Ha! Well, Picasso,” Andy replied, using the epithet he’d given Roy due to his watercolor art, “we all need a little balance, don’t we? I can’t imagine being as prolific with words and brushes as you are.” He gestured toward Roy, who had recently shared a batch of his latest short stories with Andy.

“You and your AI assistant,” Andy added with a grin. “I bet it knows as much about us by now as we do!”

“Speaking of AI, don’t keep your son waiting, Samar,” Hemant reminded him, noticing Roy glance at his watch. Roy had been looking forward to a video call with Anish, who was dialing in from Australia.

As Roy stood to leave, Andy’s voice followed him with a chuckle. “Enjoy your ‘happy time’ with AI, Samar! But don’t get too attached—next thing you know, your AI will be at Tolly Club having adda in your place!”

Roy laughed, pausing thoughtfully as he glanced at his friends. “You know, that might not be far off, Andy. One day, I may just send AI Roy over to keep you all company.”

---

Several months later, a curious scene unfolded at the Tolly Club. Sikka, Hemant, and Andy were seated at their usual table, but this time, Roy was conspicuously absent—or so it seemed. In his place was a tablet, set up like a member of the group, with a sleek, animated figure on the screen, appearing as a digital representation of Roy.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” AI Roy greeted them, his tone amiable and all too familiar.

Andy leaned back, laughing in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. Samar's really done it!”

AI Roy smiled, his voice tinged with Roy’s characteristic warmth. “Since the original Roy is busy with his son today, he thought it only fitting that I fill in for him at your adda. Rest assured, I’m well-equipped with all of his stories, quirks, and even some new insights I’ve gathered from his conversations.”

Sikka chuckled. “Alright, AI Roy, if you’re so much like our friend, tell us a story like he would.”

AI Roy cleared his virtual throat. “How about a story from Barauni, where the original Roy once led a football team to victory despite having no dedicated striker? It’s all about finding unconventional solutions, which I believe you all know he’s fond of calling ‘jugaad’!”

The table erupted in laughter as the digital Roy spun the tale, bringing back memories of Roy’s real-life wit and strategic thinking. AI Roy could almost pass as the man himself, seamlessly sharing stories and even picking up on the nuances of each friend’s personality.

After a few rounds of jokes and stories, Sikka leaned back with a grin and remarked, “Well, this AI’s doing a fine job filling in, but it’s not quite Roy without his usual plain dosa and cappuccino!”

AI Roy chuckled, “Ah, you’re right, Sikka! The real Roy would never skip his dosa and cappuccino—small pleasures of the day. Next time, I’ll ensure those cravings don’t go unfulfilled, even if I have to add a digital aroma!”

The table erupted in laughter again, and though the real Roy’s order remained unserved, AI Roy captured the moment so well that they felt he was right there with them. As the laughter died down, AI Roy leaned forward on the tablet screen, his expression playful.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said with a twinkle, “perhaps someday I’ll develop enough taste sensors to fully appreciate a dosa and cappuccino. But until then, you’ll just have to save my seat.”

Andy chuckled, shaking his head. “Samar, whether it’s you or AI Roy, we’ll always keep that seat ready. But remember—some things can’t be digitized. Like the joy of watching you savor that first bite of dosa.”

AI Roy smiled, a hint of sentiment in his voice. “True, Andy. Some things, like this adda, are best enjoyed in person. Until then, count me in—dosa or no dosa.”

And with that, their virtual adda felt a bit closer to home, each friend reassured that, in one way or another, Roy would always be present at Tolly Club, savoring every moment with them.

The ghost in the 5 wood

It was a breezy Wednesday afternoon at the club, and I found myself on the fairway, standing next to my golfing buddy, Sikka. We had been out on the course for hours, but I was in one of those slumps that takes the joy right out of the game. Shot after shot seemed lifeless, barely scraping past the last divot or veering off to settle under some irritating bush. But things took a turn at the last six holes, and I could feel a change brewing.

“Is that a MacGregor in your hand?” Sikka asked, squinting at the club I was gripping tightly.

I smiled, remembering the story behind this particular club—a 5-wood from MacGregor’s Heritage line. "Yeah, this one's special," I replied. "It was actually gifted to my old caddie, Hulo, by some Englishman. I got it off him secondhand."

Sikka chuckled. "Didn’t think you’d go in for a secondhand club."

"Well, this one’s an exception," I replied, glancing down at the club. "There’s something... I don't know... something unique about it. MacGregor has been making clubs since the 1800s, you know? They’re known for their craftsmanship. Some of their clubs are practically legends on the course."

Sikka gave me a skeptical look. "You think that old 5-wood has any of that 'legendary' magic left?”

Just then, I lined up my shot for the 17th hole, and as I swung, I felt something surreal. The club seemed to move effortlessly through the air, and the ball shot off with a clean, powerful arc. My heart skipped a beat. For the first time, I landed my third shot right on the green.

Sikka whistled, impressed. "Well, maybe there is something magical about it," he said, laughing.

I kept my eyes on the club, a strange feeling creeping over me. "You know," I murmured to Sikka, "sometimes it feels like... someone else is guiding my hand. Like the original owner, this English golfer, is helping me along. In the last few holes, every shot felt so smooth, as if he were giving me a nudge."

Sikka raised an eyebrow. "You’re saying you’ve got a ghostly golf instructor?"

I smirked, but a part of me couldn’t shake the thought. Just minutes ago, I was plodding through the course, every shot a struggle. But with this 5-wood in my hands... It was as if a long-lost passion for the game had been rekindled.

I chuckled, partly at the absurdity of it all. "Maybe, but look at the results." I gestured toward the green, where my ball sat like a well-behaved student. "I haven’t had a shot like that in ages."

Sikka shook his head, half-amused, half-spooked. "Are you serious right now?"

"Let’s just say... for these last three holes, I don’t feel like I’m playing alone." I grinned, giving the club a knowing pat, almost as though I were thanking its previous owner. "Who knows? Maybe it’s MacGregor magic... or maybe that English golfer never really let it go."

We continued onto the final hole, and with each step, I felt my confidence soar. My ground shots improved, the ball flew straighter, longer, as though drawn by some unseen hand. Sikka watched, growing more impressed—and slightly more suspicious—with each perfect shot.

As we reached the 18th green, I let out a deep breath, savoring the feel of the game that had returned to me. Sikka clapped me on the back, laughing. "Maybe you should thank that old Englishman. Whoever he was, he’s clearly not done playing.”

I glanced down at the 5-wood, feeling a strange bond with its mysterious history. "You’re probably right," I murmured. "Looks like he's got a few rounds left in him."

The Sacred Linga

---

The Sacred Linga

In the quiet village of Sonapara, nestled deep in rural Bengal, the people had always been simple folk—farmers, artisans, and devout worshippers of Lord Shiva. One day in 1943, during the height of World War II, the village experienced a terror they could scarcely understand. Japanese planes, engaged in bombing raids against the British forces in India, flew over Bengal. The air raids were part of Japan’s strategy to weaken the British Empire by attacking their colonies in the East. As bombs rained down on nearby cities and strategic installations, one plane dropped an unexploded ordnance that went unnoticed in the rural expanse of Sonapara.

It was several months after the bombing that an old farmer, Jadu, discovered a strange, heavy object half-buried in the soil while plowing his fields. The object was smooth, metallic, and shaped like a perfect Shiva Linga. To Jadu, it was not a bomb but a divine sign—a gift from Lord Shiva himself.

The object was carried to the village with great reverence. Without fully understanding its origins, the villagers built a small temple around it, worshipping it as a manifestation of Lord Shiva's presence. In the years that followed, Sonapara grew prosperous, and the villagers believed it was the blessings of this newfound deity that had kept them safe from harm during the war. As time passed, the origin of the mysterious object faded from memory, and only the stories of its divine nature remained.

---

Years went by, and the world changed around Sonapara, though the village stayed much the same. One of the village’s sons, Anil, had left to study in Kolkata, eventually becoming a respected scientist with expertise in metallurgy and explosives. His education opened his eyes to many things, but one mystery stayed with him from his childhood—the “Shiva Linga” in the village temple.

During one of his visits back home, Anil decided to examine the Linga more closely. Something about its weight, shape, and material had always bothered him. After discreetly testing a sample of the outer shell, Anil’s worst suspicions were confirmed—it wasn’t a stone linga at all. It was an unexploded bomb, likely left over from the Japanese air raids of the 1940s.

His heart raced as he sat in his room that night, knowing the immense danger his village was unknowingly facing. The bomb could still be live, and with corrosion from decades of exposure to the elements, it might leak explosives or, worse, detonate unexpectedly.

The next morning, Anil approached his father, Mukunda, who was also the temple's head priest.

“Baba,” he said cautiously, “I need to talk to you about something serious. That linga in the temple… it’s not what you think it is.”

Mukunda frowned. “What do you mean? We’ve worshipped that linga for years. The village has prospered under its blessings.”

Anil took a deep breath. “I’ve studied it, Baba. It’s not a linga, it’s an old bomb—probably dropped by the Japanese during the war. It’s dangerous. The outer shell is corroding, and it could explode.”

Mukunda’s face darkened. “What nonsense are you speaking, Anil? You’ve been living in the city too long. This is Shiva’s blessing! The whole village believes that.”

Anil sighed, realizing that convincing his father, let alone the whole village, would be nearly impossible. The linga had become too deeply entrenched in their belief system. He tried again, more urgently, “Baba, please listen to me. If it explodes, it could destroy the entire village. I don’t want to challenge your faith, but we must remove it.”

Mukunda stood firm. “You’ll not spread this madness here. This is our Lord; questioning him is blasphemy.”

---

Knowing that arguing would be futile, Anil made up his mind to take matters into his own hands. His first plan was to steal the bomb and dispose of it safely, but he quickly realized that the temple was too heavily guarded by the ever-watchful villagers. They would never let him get close to the linga without causing suspicion. And besides, removing it could trigger the explosion.

Then an idea struck him.

The villagers were convinced the linga was divine—what if he replaced it with something that looked exactly the same, only safe? After a few days of research and discreet conversations with metalworkers in Kolkata, Anil found a solution: a silver replica of the linga. It would be heavy, shiny, and almost identical to the bomb in shape, but harmless. He commissioned the replica, using his savings to fund the work.

Returning to Sonapara, Anil enacted his plan with careful precision. One night, when the village was asleep, he sneaked into the temple with a few trusted friends from the city. Using special tools, they carefully removed the corroding bomb and replaced it with the new silver linga. The bomb was transported far from the village and safely detonated by authorities Anil had alerted.

The next morning, as the villagers gathered for their daily prayers, Anil stepped forward with a proclamation.

“Baba, and all of you, listen!” he said, raising his voice over the murmurs of the crowd. “The Lord has shown his approval of our devotion. The linga has transformed overnight—it is now silver, a symbol of purity. Lord Shiva has blessed us with this gift.”

Mukunda and the villagers gasped as they saw the gleaming silver linga. Murmurs of awe and reverence rippled through the crowd.

“But,” Anil added, “the Lord has given us one instruction—to keep this linga polished and pure. We must clean it regularly to maintain its blessings.”

The villagers were overjoyed. Mukunda too, though perplexed, saw it as a divine miracle. He thanked his son for bringing the news to the village.

---

From that day forward, the villagers of Sonapara dutifully polished their silver linga, unaware that their faith had saved them from potential disaster. As the years passed, Anil visited often, each time grateful that he had protected his village, not only from an explosive past but from the power of blind belief. He had, in his own way, preserved their faith and their lives.

And the secret of the bomb was buried with him.

Note

I have attended Shastra Puja being performed of weapons like swords,rifles, pistols during Navami by the security forces of Wanakbori thermal Power plant of Gujarat. So unknowingly the villagers were doing Shastra Puja as it was an exploded bomb.

---

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Reflections of Youth: Ramu’s Journey Through Time in Connaught Place.

---

Ramu was walking down Connaught Place in New Delhi, recalling the day when he was chased by a couple of goons from Paharganj in the '60s. The bustling marketplace, known as a haven for the elites, was filled with the sights and sounds of a different era. The wide, circular roads were lined with colonial-era buildings, their white facades gleaming under the warm sun. Cars were a rare sight, with most people opting for traditional tongas and the distinctive phut-phut of auto-rickshaws, which offered regular service from Connaught Place to the Red Fort.

As he passed the familiar old café, a sudden gust of wind brought with it the faint scent of spices, instantly transporting him back to that chaotic evening. He ducked into his favorite joint, Gaylord, though it was beyond his paying capacity; he knew the goons wouldn't dare enter, as it was the poshest joint in the area, frequented by the well-to-do.

The dim lighting and soft jazz music inside provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The gentle clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation created an ambiance that felt far removed from the outside world. As he settled into a corner booth, he noticed a familiar face at the bar—an old friend, Vishnu, who hadn’t changed much over the years.

Ramu hesitated to approach him, remembering that the last time they parted, they had actually fought. Just as Ramu was contemplating whether to slip out unnoticed, Vishnu turned, locking eyes with him. A brief flicker of recognition crossed his face before he raised his glass in a silent gesture of truce.

Feeling somewhat relaxed now that Vishnu was there, Ramu thought they could tackle the goons together, testing his martial arts skills once more. As they exchanged a few stories, Ramu couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline, imagining the possibility of confronting the goons together. Vishnu noticed his restlessness and grinned, "Still itching for a fight, Ramu? Let’s see if those goons are brave enough to face two old comrades."

Both walked out with clenched fists and taut muscles, all senses in sharp focus. Ramu thought it was better to fight in the alley behind Regal Cinema, where the evening crowd would not be disturbed; in the '60s, the crowd was not much. Nodding to Vishnu, Ramu led the way toward the quiet alley, where the shadows provided cover. The distant hum of the city faded, leaving only the sound of their footsteps.

As they waited, the eerie silence hinted that the goons might already be watching from the darkness. Ramu noticed the leader of the gang strolled cautiously with both hands raised, but he was not fooled by that gesture. Ramu narrowed his eyes, knowing the leader’s seemingly peaceful approach was just a ploy. His fists clenched tighter as he whispered to Vishnu, "Stay sharp. He’s up to something."

The goon leader stepped closer, a smirk on his face, as if daring Ramu to make the first move. Ramu nonchalantly pulled out his packet of Panama cigarettes and took out a matchbox, throwing a ring of smoke calmly. The leader paused, eyeing Ramu's cool demeanor with suspicion. Ramu took another long drag and flicked the match aside, his expression calm but ready. "What's the matter?" Ramu said with a smirk, exhaling another ring of smoke. Vishnu stood just behind him, silently watching, every muscle ready to spring into action.

Just then, Vishnu noticed the goon leader and came out whistling the popular tune of a Dev Anand movie, asking, "Do you really intend to fight or are you just trying our patience?" He loudly yawned. Vishnu's casual demeanor seemed to infuriate the leader even more. "Who do you think you are, clowning around?" he snapped, but Ramu could see the unease creeping into his posture. Vishnu, unfazed, continued whistling, "Just enjoying the show. If you're here for a fight, you better make it quick. We’ve got better things to do."

The psychological game played by Ramu and Vishnu paid off. The goon leader hesitated, caught off guard by their unexpected confidence and casual banter. Ramu seized the moment, stepping forward with a smirk. "You’re outnumbered and outsmarted. Why not walk away before this gets messy?" The tension in the alley shifted, and the other goons exchanged uncertain glances, clearly weighing their options.

Realizing his gang was losing their nerve, the leader shot them a furious glare. "What are you doing? Get back here!" But his voice lacked authority, and one by one, the goons turned and fled down the alley. Ramu and Vishnu exchanged triumphant glances, feeling emboldened as the leader, now isolated, shifted nervously, eyeing the two old friends.

With hearty laughter, they advised the leader to scram before he got a beating from them. As the leader turned to leave, Ramu called out, "And tell your friends that next time, they should think twice before picking a fight in Connaught Place!" The leader stumbled away, leaving the alley in silence.

Ramu and Vishnu shared a moment of camaraderie, realizing that their friendship had weathered time and conflict. As they walked back toward the lively streets, filled with the chatter of people and the occasional clatter of tongas, Ramu felt a sense of renewal—sometimes, facing old fears with old friends made for the best memories. They resumed their chatter, laughter echoing down the alley, leaving behind not just a past confrontation but also the promise of future adventures together.

Now, in 2024, as Ramu walked through Connaught Place, he recalled that fateful evening. He was now an old man of eighty, and the once-vibrant area had transformed; modernity had replaced the charm of the past, with sleek buildings and bustling crowds. Yet, as he strolled along the familiar pathways, memories flooded back.

He could almost hear the laughter he shared with Vishnu and feel the adrenaline rush from their confrontation with the goons. The walk felt like a journey through a time travel tunnel, transporting him back to that fateful day. Unfortunately, life had changed since then. He had lost Vishnu to COVID-19 in 2021, and the weight of that loss pressed heavily on his heart.

As he paused to gaze at the now-distant Regal cinema!Ramu couldn’t help but reflect on the fleeting nature of time and friendship. The memories of their adventures together echoed in his mind like scenes from his favorite book, Three Comrades by Erich Maria Remarque, where camaraderie and the bond of friendship shone brightly against the backdrop of a changing world.

He was relieved to see that their favourite joint Gaylord is still there in Regal building though the single screen Regal cinema hall has closed giving way to the modern Rivoli Multiplex.

With a bittersweet smile, he continued his walk, feeling the warmth of those cherished memories embrace him like an old friend. Though Vishnu was no longer by his side, Ramu carried him with him—forever a part of his journey through life.

---

The history of Birbal retold

In the quaint village of Tikawan, near Kalpi, a young Mahabir grew up with an insatiable curiosity and a sharp mind. His Braja Bhasa teacher, Panditji, marveled at Mahabir's quick grasp of languages and mathematics. The villagers soon recognized the clever boy's talent for trouble-shooting.

One day, the local oil presser, Lala, complained about thieves stealing his precious mustard oil. Mahabir, then just 12, offered to help. He observed the presser's daily routine, analyzed the theft patterns, and set a trap. The thieves were caught, and Lala's gratitude earned Mahabir the nickname "Chatur" (clever one).

Mahabir's mathematical skills also helped expose the village grocer's deceitful practices. The grocer would mix stone particles with rice to increase his profits. Mahabir calculated the discrepancy in weights and measurements, revealing the scam. The villagers applauded his ingenuity.

As Mahabir grew older, his reputation spread. Village elders sought his counsel to resolve disputes. He learned Persian from local mullahs, broadening his linguistic skills.

Years passed, and Mahabir's exceptional abilities caught the attention of Emperor Akbar's courtiers. Summoned to Agra, Mahabir became Birbal, one of the Navaratnas.

My childhood friend Pushkar, a descendant of Khubchand, would often regale me with tales of Birbal's exploits during our school days. He spoke of how Birbal's cleverness had earned him a place in Akbar's court and how Khubchand had supplied firewood, tallow, and other essentials to the Mughal soldiers.

As the Mughal army marched from Agra to Jodhpur, Khubchand joined the entourage. The grand procession was a sight to behold:

At the forefront, horse riders led the way, clearing the path and securing the surroundings. Behind them, Akbar himself rode atop a majestic elephant, a symbol of his power and authority. Following closely were his trusted Navaratnas, including Birbal, Tansen, and Abul Fazl, each mounted on elephants.

Next in line were the foot soldiers, armed with swords, spears, and dhal (shields). These brave warriors formed the backbone of the Mughal army. Make-shift kaccha roads were built to facilitate their passage, as established roads were scarce.

Akbar's chief strategist, Man Singh, planned the army's movements, wisely advising against marching during the scorching hot sun. Day journeys with restful nights ensured the army remained fresh and alert.

When the soldiers pitched their tents, merchants would set up a bustling market at a distance. The aroma of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and spices wafted through the air, enticing soldiers and local villagers. This impromptu marketplace transformed into a vibrant Mela, with villagers and soldiers mingling freely.

Birbal's presence ensured peace and harmony, as he mediated disputes and maintained order. Akbar, pleased with the cordial atmosphere, would sometimes invite Tansen to perform. Tansen's soulful renditions of various ragas would mesmerize the emperor, soldiers, and villagers.

One evening, Akbar asked Birbal, "What is the difference between a wise man and a fool?" Birbal replied, "A wise man learns from others' mistakes, while a fool learns from his own." Akbar smiled, acknowledging Birbal's insightful answer.

On another occasion, Akbar asked Birbal to find the cleverest man in the kingdom. Birbal returned with a humble farmer who had wisely divided his land among his quarrelsome sons, stipulating that each son must cultivate the land together, ensuring unity.

Akbar was impressed by Birbal's choice and asked how he had selected the farmer. Birbal explained that the farmer's innovative solution demonstrated wisdom and understanding of human nature.

During their journey, Akbar once asked Birbal four questions:

1. What is the most valuable thing in the world?

2. What is the fastest thing in the world?

3. What is the biggest thing in the world?

4. What is the most numerous thing in the world?

Birbal replied:

1. The most valuable thing is knowledge.

2. The fastest thing is the mind.

3. The biggest thing is the universe.

4. The most numerous thing is stupidity.

Akbar was delighted with Birbal's thoughtful answers.

Another time, Akbar asked Birbal to find a solution for the kingdom's water scarcity. Birbal suggested building small check dams to conserve rainwater and harvest dew. Akbar implemented the plan, alleviating the water crisis.

When Akbar asked Birbal, "What should a king do when his people are unhappy?" Birbal replied, "He should either change his policies or change his people." Akbar appreciated Birbal's candid advice.

As the Mughal army approached Jodhpur, Birbal reflected on his journey from Tikawan to the imperial court. His childhood experiences had prepared him for the complexities of statecraft.

Decades later, Pushkar, now a cunning lawyer, would exploit our ancestral connections for personal gain, gobbling up a portion of our ancestral house in Allahabad. I couldn't help but contrast Pushkar's deceitful nature with the integrity of Birbal, the clever boy from Tikawan.

Years passed, and Birbal's legend grew. His wit and wisdom became synonymous with justice and fairness. Akbar's court was transformed by Birbal's presence, and the emperor's reign was marked by unprecedented peace and prosperity.

One day, as Birbal prepared to leave Akbar's court, the emperor approached him with tears in his eyes. "Birbal, my friend and advisor, what can I gift you for your years of service?" Birbal smiled, "Your Majesty, my reward lies in the smiles of the people, the prosperity of the kingdom, and the memories we've shared."

Akbar nodded, understanding Birbal's humility. "Then, let me build a monument in your honor, where future generations will remember your wisdom and wit." Birbal declined, "No, Your Majesty, my legacy lies in the hearts of the people, not in stone or marble."

And so, Birbal returned to Tikawan, his village, where he spent his final days surrounded by loved ones, sharing tales of his adventures and imparting wisdom to the next generation.

The story of Birbal serves as a reminder that true greatness lies not in wealth or power but in the positive impact we have on others' lives.

Epilogue:

I sat with Pushkar, now an old man, reminiscing about our childhood days. He looked at me with a tinge of regret, "I wish I had followed Birbal's path, my friend." I smiled, "It's never too late, Pushkar. Share Birbal's stories with your grandchildren, and perhaps they'll learn from his wisdom."

As I left Allahabad, I couldn't help but wonder: what if Pushkar had followed Birbal's example? Perhaps our ancestral house would still be intact, and Pushkar's legacy would be one of integrity, not deceit.

But Birbal's story remains, a beacon of hope, inspiring generations to come.

I have twisted the history about end of Birbal,he was assassinated by jealous courtiers of Akbar as per some historians. As the historians were not present during that period of 16th century  so they used circumstantial evidences from various Urdu and Hindi manuscripts to conclude, hence I used my imagination to give a happy ending.

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Whispers of Rebellion: The Untold Story of Spies in the Shadows of 1857 Delhi

While riffling through the old bookstalls in Ajmal Khan Market, the bookseller handed me a worn, dog-eared book filled with historical stories of Delhi. Intrigued, I began to read, and among the faded pages, I stumbled upon a captivating story. Now that I'm in Delhi, I thought it would be the perfect time to share it with you...

In the sweltering heat of 1857 Delhi, the city was simmering with tension, its narrow lanes and bustling bazaars a silent witness to the brewing storm of rebellion. Chandni Chowk, the vibrant marketplace, was alive with whispers of mutiny and revolution. In the midst of it all were two men—Imtiaz, the water-supplier, and Madan Lal, the kerosene-seller—both well-known faces in the alleys and cantonments of the city. By day, they moved freely between the soldiers of the East India Company and the sepoys stationed at the Red Fort. By night, they whispered secrets to whoever could pay the most.

The revolt had truly taken shape in March 1857, when Mangal Pandey, a sepoy in the Bengal Regiment, refused to bite the new Enfield rifle cartridges greased with animal fat—an insult to the religious beliefs of both Hindus and Muslims. His defiance at Barrackpore triggered what would become the Sepoy Mutiny, a wave of rebellion that quickly spread across India. As the mutiny grew, Delhi became a critical front, with both British forces and the rebel sepoys vying for control of the city.

Imtiaz, lanky and quick-witted, carried his goatskin water pouch, slaking the thirst of soldiers under the unforgiving sun. What no one knew was that this 'visty' (water-supplier) had a mind as sharp as his tongue. He supplied more than just water—he dealt in information, picking up stray bits of military talk and strategy. His loyalties, however, leaned towards the sepoys. Madan Lal, his closest friend, was no less cunning. A dealer in kerosene, he knew that fire and light were just as essential in times of war. His presence at both the British cantonment and the mutinous sepoys’ camps went unquestioned. Underneath the facade of a humble trader, he was a master spy, selling more than just fuel.

The two men made frequent trips to the Sarai at Chandni Chowk, a bustling inn where merchants, soldiers, and traders gathered. It was here, amidst the clinking of glasses and the murmur of intoxicated conversation, that Imtiaz and Madan Lal found their goldmine. As the soldiers—British and Indian alike—drank themselves into stupors, secrets flowed as freely as the madira. Imtiaz and Madan Lal listened closely, catching whispers of battle plans, troop movements, and political maneuverings.

Occasionally, an older man with a turban would sit quietly in a corner of the Sarai, reciting ghazals in a melancholic tone that echoed through the dimly lit hall. It was none other than Mirza Ghalib, the famed poet of Delhi. His presence drew attention, but beneath the words of love and loss lay veiled criticism of the times. It was said that Ghalib knew more than he let on and that he too whispered to those who had the ear to listen. Yet, it was the rumour about Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor, that truly electrified the city. Though old and frail, it was whispered in hushed tones that he was the heart of the rebellion, secretly guiding the sepoys as they plotted their revolt.

Imtiaz and Madan Lal knew they were in the midst of something far greater than themselves. Though they played both sides, their hearts were with the sepoys, their fellow Indians. The duo began to carefully gather intelligence from the British soldiers, memorizing their strategies, and then slipping through the winding lanes of Daryaganj to warn the mutinous sepoys at the Red Fort. They provided more than just information; they found safe hiding places for the sepoys who had been discovered, using their knowledge of the city's labyrinthine alleys and abandoned homes.

As the rebellion gathered strength, Imtiaz and Madan Lal became invaluable assets. The British trusted them, unaware that the two men were double agents. The sepoys, in turn, began to rely on the information they provided to avoid ambushes and outmaneuver the British soldiers. It was thanks to Imtiaz that the sepoys knew of a secret patrol near Kashmere Gate, allowing them to retreat to safety. And it was Madan Lal who warned of an imminent British attack on the southern part of the Red Fort, giving the sepoys time to strengthen their defenses.

One night, as they sat together in the Sarai, Ghalib recited a particularly somber ghazal:

"Bazeecha-e-atfal hai duniya mere aage,

Hota hai shab-o-roz tamasha mere aage."

(The world is but a playground before me,

Night and day, it plays its drama before me.)

The words felt prophetic, as if he sensed the danger that was growing closer. Imtiaz and Madan Lal exchanged a glance—they too could feel the weight of the moment. The city was on the brink of chaos, and soon, neither side would tolerate double-dealing.

Their greatest challenge came when a high-ranking British officer began to suspect there were spies in the ranks. He had ordered a thorough investigation, and Imtiaz and Madan Lal knew they were under watch. Yet, their cunning minds found a way out—they fed just enough misleading information to the British to maintain their trust while ensuring that the sepoys remained one step ahead.

In the final days of the uprising in Delhi, when the British closed in on the Red Fort, it was Imtiaz and Madan Lal who ensured that key sepoy leaders found safe passage out of the city through hidden tunnels near Daryaganj. Though the rebellion would eventually be crushed, the two men had played their part in the fight for freedom, slipping back into the shadows once the dust had settled.

And so, in the annals of history, while the names of the great leaders and warriors would be remembered, the story of two cunning traders—Imtiaz, the water-supplier, and Madan Lal, the kerosene-seller—would remain hidden, known only to the few who survived the mutiny. Yet, their legacy lived on in the quiet corners of Delhi, whispered in the streets of Chandni Chowk, and in the haunting verses of Ghalib’s poetry.

As the rebellion faded and the British tightened their grip on Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor, found himself a prisoner in his own city, watching the end of an era. His once grand empire reduced to ashes, Zafar turned to poetry to express his sorrow and resignation. In the final days of the mutiny, his couplet echoed through the crumbling walls of the Red Fort, a reflection of his shattered dreams:

"Lagta nahin hai jee mera ujde dayar mein,

Kis ki bani hai aalame-na-payedar mein."

(My heart finds no solace in this desolate land,

Who has ever found peace in this fleeting world?)

The couplet encapsulated the despair not only of the fallen emperor but also of a city—and a people—whose hopes of freedom had been momentarily crushed, yet still lingered in the hearts of those like Imtiaz and Madan Lal, who fought from the shadows.

From snowbound Norway to the thrill of recovery—another case closed with Sam Spade.

Long ago, I traveled to Norway and stayed in a hotel in Oslo. Being in a place so different from home, with its crisp air and serene surroundings, I found myself reflecting on one of my long-time favorites—Humphrey Bogart. Bogart, with his iconic portrayal of the hard-boiled detective Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, has always been a source of fascination for me. Created by Dashiell Hammett, Sam Spade's character embodied sharp wit, toughness, and a complex moral code that left a lasting impression on cinema.

This trip to Oslo, combined with my admiration for Bogart and his unforgettable roles, stirred something within me. It sparked the urge to write a story—one that blends the mystique of distant lands, the intrigue of a noir detective, and the timeless charisma of Humphrey Bogart.

With a jerk, I came to my senses when I felt a tug at my coat. I was buried in snow, numb from head to toe, but that tug brought me back from the brink. A Saint Bernard dog had found me, its warm breath visible in the freezing air as it sniffed and nudged me to move. I weakly reached for the bottle of brandy hanging from the dog’s collar and fumbled with the cork, my frozen fingers barely able to manage it. But when I finally got it open, I took a long swig, feeling the fiery liquid seep into my veins, thawing out my mind and bringing me back to life.

 How did I end up here, half-buried in the snow-covered wilderness of Norway? As the sled took me back to the nearest town, I tried to piece it all together. Just days earlier, Sam Spade and I were relaxing in our hotel room in Oslo, savoring the success of our last adventure—the Maltese Falcon. Sam, looking every bit the Humphrey Bogart figure he was, leaned back in his chair, sipping a glass of whiskey with that familiar smirk on his face. I had just arrived from Kolkata to join him on a new case that promised to be as dangerous as it was intriguing. We had been hired to track down a stolen Van Gogh painting, the prized possession of a Monte Carlo drug lord. Art, especially something as valuable as a Van Gogh, was the perfect way to launder and stash ill-gotten gains. 

    The money trail was untraceable, the transactions hidden in the murky depths of the dark web. The drug lord’s vault was supposedly impenetrable, buried deep within his lavish estate, protected by state-of-the-art security. But someone had pulled off the impossible. The thief drilled a tunnel from a neighboring building into the vault, bypassing the coded locks with ease and making off with the painting. The job was a risky one, but when Sam Spade called, I couldn't resist the allure of another adventure. It wasn’t long before we got a tip-off that the thief was hiding out in Norway, operating from an igloo in the far north, beyond Tromsø. 

Our anonymous client had reached out to Sam through the internet, transferring a hefty sum in cryptocurrency to his New York account as payment. The job was on. Sam and I planned to head out together, but as luck would have it, another lead came up, and Sam had to follow it, leaving me to scout the igloo on my own. I left our Oslo base early that morning, equipped with a satellite phone to keep in touch with Sam and Soumya, my tech-savvy contact in Kolkata. Soumya had been tracking the thief’s movements through his extensive network on the dark web and had sent me the coordinates of the thief’s hideout.

 I rented a sled in Tromsø, the last major outpost before the vast wilderness of northern Norway took over. It was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that cuts through even the thickest layers, but the excitement of the chase kept me warm as I headed out into the desolate white landscape. As I neared the coordinates Soumya had sent, my instincts prickled. Something wasn’t right. Before I knew it, a group of local toughs, hired muscle by the looks of them, was hot on my trail. They attacked, and despite my best efforts to fend them off, I was overwhelmed. A blow to the head sent me sprawling into the snow, and everything went black. That’s how I ended up here, rescued by a Saint Bernard, on the verge of losing everything—the painting, the mission, and maybe even my life. But the brandy had worked its magic, and by the time we reached the small town of Alta, I was ready to get back into action. The locals, seeing my battered state, offered me shelter, but I declined. I had a job to finish. I quickly contacted Sam. "Sam, it’s me. They found me. I barely made it out, but I know where the painting is. 

The thief is holed up in an igloo near the coordinates Soumya sent." Sam’s voice crackled over the line, urgent and clear. "Stay put. I’m coming to you." It wasn’t long before Sam arrived, looking every bit the iconic detective he was. He wasted no time, handing me a spare coat and another flask, this time filled with strong coffee. "Let’s finish this," he said, his voice carrying the gravitas of a man who had seen it all and lived to tell the tale. We rented snowmobiles in Alta, opting for speed over the sled this time. The snow was relentless, but the adrenaline pumping through our veins kept us going. We tore through the frozen landscape, the engines roaring against the howling wind. It wasn’t long before the cluster of igloos came into view, their rounded shapes barely distinguishable against the snowy backdrop.

 We approached the igloo cautiously, Sam’s years of experience guiding every step. As we circled around, I spotted tracks leading away from the igloo, fresh and hurried. The thief knew we were coming. We dismounted and followed the tracks to a smaller, more isolated igloo at the edge of the cluster. This was it. Sam signaled for me to cover him as he approached the entrance. With a swift motion, he pulled out his Colt M1911, a relic from his earlier days, and kicked open the door. The inside was dimly lit, the flicker of a single oil lamp casting eerie shadows on the walls. The thief, a wiry man with a face twisted in fear and desperation, was frantically packing supplies, clearly ready to bolt at any moment. But it was the Van Gogh painting, leaning against the far wall, that caught my eye. "Hold it right there!" Sam’s voice boomed, his gun trained on the thief.

 The thief froze, his eyes darting between us and the painting. For a split second, it seemed he might comply, but then he made a desperate dash for the back of the igloo, where a hidden tunnel led to the open snowfields. Sam fired a shot, grazing the thief's leg and sending him crashing to the ground, screaming in pain. I rushed forward, securing the painting while Sam kept his gun on the thief. The man was whimpering now, the fight drained out of him. "We got what we came for," Sam said, his voice calm and measured. "Let’s get out of here before his friends catch up." We tied the thief up and left him for the local authorities to deal with. The painting, now safely in our hands, was wrapped securely and strapped to the back of Sam’s snowmobile. We rode back to Alta in silence, the satisfaction of a job well done keeping us warm against the biting cold. As we reached the outskirts of the town, Sam looked over at me with that familiar, lopsided grin. "You always did have a knack for getting into trouble." I laughed, feeling the tension of the past few days finally start to lift. "And you always show up just in time to get me out of it." We returned to Oslo the next day, the Van Gogh painting safely in tow, ready to be returned to its rightful owner—or as rightful as a Monte Carlo drug lord could be. As we sat in our hotel room, nursing glasses of whiskey and reflecting on our latest adventure, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Another case closed, another story added to the growing legend of Sam Spade. "Here’s to the next one," Sam said, raising his glass. I clinked mine against his, knowing that wherever the next adventure took us, we’d be ready. And maybe next time, I’d bring Babulal along.